


Isabella's Freedom

by TheHeightsThatWuthered (JosieRuby1)



Category: Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: 1700s, Alone, Pain, Struggle, abandoned, its not easy for my girl, post domestic abuse, single mother, strive, tw mentioned in the notes before the relevant chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosieRuby1/pseuds/TheHeightsThatWuthered
Summary: Isabella left Wuthering Heights to protect her unborn baby but is life as a single mother an improvement?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> SomethingLikeCats on Tumblr asked someone to write a fic about Isabella's life as a single mother so I happily obliged. I can't write in a Victorian/Romantic/Bronte style, so I didn't try, I will, however, do all the necessary research to ensure it is factual

Isabella Linton’s biggest downfall was that she idealised. She had idealised Heathcliff and believed him to be a good man under that rough exterior, believed him to be loveable and loving. She had believed that getting to London would be the difficult part and that things would fall into place once she was there. She had been wrong on both accounts.

She still had some of the money she had left the Grange with, parts she had managed to hide from Heathcliff. Parts that had landed her with bruises as she had refused to disclose where she hid it. It had been enough to get her the coaches she needed to travel to London. Three coaches and an overnight stay in a rundown inn near Nottingham had left her extremely out of pocket. Reading London, she had felt a serge of hope. London was so big it seemed impossible to find someone who left for London. It was magical like something out of a fairy tale that she knew she was too old and too experienced to believe in.

Instead, London was something out of the modern poems that she so enjoyed reading. It was a burning furnace of smoke and heat and discomfort. She had never been a particularly well person, she had been prone to asthma, with weak lungs, and London only increased this. She coughed and spluttered in an attempt to just breathe. The air was wrong. Of course she was aware of the thick smoke air caused by the ever-growing industrial but that had only been on one of their rare visits to Keighley or Leeds. She was used to the free, windy, wiley air of the moorlands. She may not have spent time, like Catherine, clambering the crags and splashing in the streams, but the moorlands were just as much hers. And the air in London was wrong.

She walked with a handkerchief at her mouth, trying to breathe as little of this air as possible. The streets were dirty in the wrong way. The Grange had always had its approach perfectly swept but she knew of the muddy dirt of the moors and experienced it first hand at Wuthering Heights. London was the dirt of open sewers and uncleaned horses. It made her long for the lavender and heather smells she had grown up with. The stink mixed with a wave of nostalgia brought tears to Isabella’s eyes but she wiped them away with the end of her handkerchief and swallowed back the lump in her throat. She didn’t have the time to cry.

Finding shelter was not easy. She was low on money and the prices she came across where unrealistic to her, though they were mere pennies to Edgar or Heathcliff. She came away from several landlords and ladies with more tears in her eyes and a true uncertainty of what to do in her heart. When the sign for a pawnbroker caught her attention, Isabella considered what few things she had in her bag, clothing and a few keep sakes. She took herself inside. These were her only worldly possessions and she had to sell the majority.

She left the shop with her bag much lighter, no jewellery and only a couple of her less fancy dresses left. She, however, also had enough money to at least find accommodation for the foreseeable. The long term she would have to sort out when it turned up. She was exhausted from travel and the heaviness of her heart and simply wanted to lay her bed down.

She knew she would have to become used to less than what she knew, but that did not make the leaky, cold, and filthy flats any more appealing. She kept her tears silent and unseen, or so she thought, until the wife of the final landlord put an arm around her and said she would put the kettle on with her husband shown her the apartment. It was small, barely more than a bed and washbowl, but it was cheap, it wasn’t leaky and the cup of tea in her hand reminded her what welcoming warmth felt like. She excepted it and managed to hold back the worst of her tears until she was alone.

She fell onto the bed and sobbed There were a few springs missing and it was not comfortable, but it would do. It would have to.

-

Isabella spent the following months crying, screaming, and begging potential employers to look over the fact that she was soon to be a single mother, and employ her any way. All kinds of insults were thrown at her; she was accused of being a prostitute, of being easy, of being not good enough to keep a husband. She had tried lying, saying that she was a widow and her husband had passed away, but it made no difference. She was holding tight to the money she had made at the pawnbrokers, she brought cheap clothing and sold the remainder of her old clothes. The Isabella Linton who had lived at the Grange was dead and gone. She didn’t even recognise herself.

She knew the stress was not good for the baby. She imagined Edgar attempting to soothe Catherine, telling her that she had to relax for the sake of the baby. It caused her to cry all the more, knowing that she was supposed to be with a husband that would do the same for her. The stress was not good, and she went into labour early.

The birth was long and painful. Isabella spent several hours screaming and crying. She lost consciousness a few times. She screamed at the doctor and midwife to get that monster away from her and her child, and a few moments later begged them to let him closer, let him in, perhaps he would forgive her. They didn’t understand that she was seeing first Heathcliff and then Edgar. There was a lot of blood, a lot of mess and more pain than she had ever experienced. Isabella had never felt more alone than when she had to go through that within anyone to hold her hand or stroke her forehead. The hours passed and eventually, wrapped in a small rough blanket, a quiet baby boy was handed to her.

Linton Heathcliff – she had been forced to give the baby the father’s name, despite wanting to keep it singular – was the image of a Linton. His hair was a paler blond than young Cathy’s had been in that small glimpse Isabella had got when she had last been at the Grange. His eyes were the bonniest and brightest of blues. Isabella understood, the moment she held him, what people meant when they spoke of the bond between a mother and her child. She felt like she could fight the entire world for the sake of this tiny little boy.

She cried as she held him for the first time, partly from the exhaustion and remnants of pain, but mostly from the fear. Linton was so small, he couldn’t do a single thing for himself, his entire life for her responsibility. It terrified her. She was barely more than a child herself and now she was responsible for this whole other life. She was almost certain she wasn’t up to the task. She, however, was more certain that Satan himself could not stop her fighting for Linton.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella needs a job and London isn't kind to single mothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for suicidal thoughts.  
> TW for sexual harrassment  
> TW for mentions of prostitution.

Chapter One

Isabella could not afford to get a beautiful, soft cot for Linton. She imagined the luxury white painted, and gold highlighted wooden crib that Cathy would be sleeping in. She imagined the bundle of pillows and blankets she would be provided with. She imagined the handknitted toys made by Nelly that surrounded her in there, so she never felt alone. She imagined the floating animals hanging over it and Cathy’s little arms reaching for them. She imagined all of this before opening her eyes and seeing Linton lying in a glorified box softened by a pillow from her bed. He slept peacefully for now.

Linton was sickly from his birth. Once she had been calm and lucid enough after labour, the doctor had told her not to get too attached. He told her that babies born premature had a higher risk of death and without the necessary provisions it was unlikely he would survive. Isabella knew exactly what he meant; she wasn’t rich enough to keep Linton alive. The comments infuriated her. They didn’t understand that the moment she had found out she was pregnant she was attached to her baby.

He coughed a lot and he cried a lot. It was when Linton wasn’t crying that Isabella worried though, if he was crying it meant he was alive. If he was quiet, she could not relax, unless she could see that he was still breathing. He wasn’t a particularly melancholy child, in the rare moments when he was awake and not seemingly in pain or struggling to breathe, he would look up at her with his gummy attempt at a smile, pull at her hair or try to eat his toes. These were the moments Isabella was living for. Linton was all she had in the world but there was never a moment when that wasn’t enough.

When Linton began to wake, Isabella lifted him into his arms. He would be hungry soon, she knew. He blinked a few times, as if getting ready to see the world properly again, and then looked at her with wide bright blue eyes that reminded her of her brother and hurt desperately. He was beautiful and he deserved so much better than she could give. She considered, for not the first time in the month since Linton’s birth, if she should beg Edgar to take Linton in, to give him the life he deserved. She could never do it though, there were many reasons but the strongest were that she could not face Edgar rejecting her son the way he had rejected her and that she couldn’t face saying goodbye to her baby. If she did not have Linton, she would have nothing except the pressing idea of the bottom of the Thames.

He began to get grizzly and Isabella pulled the top of her dress down, freeing her left breast, desperately hoping Linton would take this time. He favoured the right breast and she had a near constant discomfort there from over use. He latched on and Isabella bit her tongue to stop herself from vocalising the pain she felt. She had to readjust him on her breast in order to make sure he was positioned right to actually get the milk. He took, thankfully, and was drinking quickly and gratefully in no time. With the feeding Linton in one hand, Isabella moved about in order to organise some food for herself. She was beginning to get used to the hunger pangs now that she was not getting regular healthy meals and she made do with what she could get. Meat was a rarity now, when it had been a commonplace. She felt her drastic change in diet was a big part of why she felt weaker more of the time. Still, she made herself some vegetable soup and once Linton had finished feeding, she placed him on the bed, redressed herself and sat to eat it.

\--

Isabella did not have a pram for Linton. She felt it a waste of money – something she was very short on. Instead whenever she went out, she twisted a blanket around herself, creating a pouch for Linton to lay in. It kept him close to her, allowing him to feel her heartbeat and her to notice his breathing. Isabella went out of several reasons; the apartment felt claustrophobic when she was in there for too long, she felt Linton should spent as much time outside as possible, and she needed to find a job. Being so completely alone, she had no one who could look after Linton while she was searching for employment. The baby at her chest was off putting to many of the employers she came across.

Day after day, Isabella went out early and returned late with no luck. She would seen be out of money and then would be on the streets. She would have no way to look after herself, let alone Linton. She would have no way to get Linton to safety. She became more and more desperate. She was unable to get a governess job despite being educated enough in reading, writing, painting French and Latin because no one wanted a governess who was distracted by her own child. Governesses were supposed to be entirely focused on the children she was educating. For the same reason she couldn’t get a job in a factory or a shop. She searched street after street in London, desperate for work.

More than once she was offered money by men who got far too close and put their hands in places she was not comfortable with – up the bottom of her dress, down the top. She worried not so much for herself and what they would do to her – she had a decent idea what they would do and it didn’t scare her so much as disgust her. She worried for Linton who was beginning to get grizzly at her chest. She bolted away but the thoughts stuck with her. The sweaty, chubby fingers working their way up her legs. It made her feel sick but what made her feel worse was that she was considering accepting the offer. She needed the money after all. Perhaps she could get the landlady to look after Linton.

\--

“Did you have any luck in finding a job yet, dear?”

The landlady was a chubby, jolly woman by the name of Mrs Morris. Isabella was glad to let her in when she knocked on the apartment door with a tray of tea and biscuits. It was a simple silver-plated tray with plain white cups and simple biscuits but it felt like the height of luxury to Isabella who was getting used to one meal a day and not a great one at that.

Isabella sighed, long and hard, letting out all the exhaustion and frustration she was feeling. She bounced Linton gently in front of her, struggling to keep the tears inside.

“I’ll take that as a no then,” Mrs Morris said softly. She was holding a cup for Isabella. “Wanna put him down for a moment? Or I can hold him?”

Isabella hesitated, but if she was considering getting _that sort of job_ she would have to trust this woman with him. After a moment she held Linton out. Once the cup was placed down, Mrs Morris took him, cooing at him before holding him gently in her arms, rocking gently. Linton grizzled at first, unsure who this Non-Mama woman was but then he decided he liked the things hanging from her neck and reached for them, settling.

Isabella picked up the cup and sat on the bed with her legs crossed. She gave Mrs Morris a grateful smile as she sipped the tea. There was something very calming about sharing a warm drink with someone. She might not know this woman, but she certainly felt less alone for those few moments.

“Take some biscuits, dear,” Mrs Morris said, nodding to the tray she had placed near the wash basin. Isabella did so, after she had eaten a couple, Mrs Morris continued. “I’ve been speaking with me husband.”

Isabella felt her heart sink and thought she was about to bring up the biscuits she had just eaten. With panicked eyes she watched Mrs Morris, who was still smiling. Had Isabella been wrong about this woman? Was she not the kindly person she seemed? Was she perhaps setting her up for disappointment? She wished she had Linton in her arms again, something to focus on and steady herself. The tea in the cup was slipping from side to side and she realised she was shaking so she put the cup down for safety.

“No, no, don’t you worry,” Mrs Morris added quickly, seeing the panic in Isabella’s reaction. “We’re not gonna put you on the street, my girl.” Relief crossed Isabella’s face but only briefly as confusion and fear took a hold. “You seem like a sweetie. Me husband and I allowed you to stay because we knew how hard it would be for you. The world does not take kindly to mothers with no husbands. And, if you don’t mind me saying, the way you holds yourself, and the words you talk with. I think you’re used to better. Something happened that made you lose everything and you’ve no idea how to hold yourself this state.”

Isabella didn’t answer, looking down at her lap rather than at Mrs Morris now.

“That’s not a judgment, mind. Your story is none of our business. We all have our secrets and we have a right to keep ‘em. What me husband and I have been discussing is how you’re going to afford to live and keep this little one living.” Mrs Morris held Linton up as she finished.

Isabella looked back up reluctantly, “I have a plan,” She said, uncertainly. “I was going to speak to you tonight, ask you if you could look after Linton for me for a few hours.” The words tumbled out in a rush and Isabella didn’t notice Mrs Morris trying to interrupt her. “He won’t be any trouble, he’ll sleep the whole time and of course I’ll pay a bit extra for the trouble.”

When Isabella had to pause for breath she noticed Mrs Morris’ hand up. She remained quiet and let her speak. “This job,” She asked, concerned. “Does it involve going out at night and um… how shall we put it? Entertaining the gentlemen?”

Isabella’s face turned scarlet.

“My dear, I have seen many young girls come to London throughout the year and fall into jobs like that. Some get out of it, some don’t. Some get out only to fall back. Some people say it is a job that allows them control of themselves but tell me, is that really what you want? To only be able to afford to live because man after man is able to have you?”

Isabella was crying, quietly, silently. “I don’t have another choice.” She said.

“Ah, my dear, but you do.” Mrs Morris told her. “That is what I’ve been talking to me husband about. Come now, calm down. You know our little shop downstairs? Tis but a humble business, just the two of us and a paperboy. But you see, our current paperboy, Charlie, he’s gotten pretty ill recently and ain’t able to work anymore. We need someone to take Charlie’s place. It’s tiring work mind and lots of walking. But Mr Morris and I, we reckons we can strike a deal with you, where you take Charlie’s place and help us out in the shop, filling up the shelves and the like, and we take your rent out the wages, leaving you what little you’ll need for keeping you and the little’un healthy. What d’you say?”

Isabella’s sobs continued but the reason for them changed a great deal. For only the second time since arriving in London, Isabella felt something akin to hope, and for the second time it was because of Mr and Mrs Morris. She was hardly aware of what was happening when Mrs Morris’ arms wrapped around her, hugging her closely. Isabella cried all the more at that hardly able to remember the last time she was hug in such a caring, such a motherly way.

“I’ll take that as a yes then, shall I?” Mrs Morris asked.

Isabella managed to choke out a sound that was something like agreement and Mrs Morris laughed slightly. She continued to hold Isabella, allowing her to expel all the pain and stress and trauma she had been through.


	3. Chapter Two

Dear Nelly,

I have been in London now for almost a year and the time feels as though it has both flown by and also dragged by. I am missing Yorkshire terribly but I would not return to it. I understand that I have made the decisions that lead me to be here and I understand that I have to stick with the consequences of those decisions. However, I thought, that as the only person left who might be curious as to how I am doing that I would send a letter to explain the situation. I am living in a small apartment above a shop near to central London. The flat is barely more than a bedroom with a wash area but we make do.

I say we because I have given birth to my child. He is a beautiful little boy and I named him Linton. He is only a few months younger than Edgar's Cathy, though they will have vastly different lives. I gave my son the name Linton because although I gave away the name for a stupid infatuation, I wish for my child to have something of the family I come from. He did not make the choice to have this life and every time I look at him I wish that I could give him something better. Speaking of the Linton name, I hope that Edgar is doing well. Although Cathy's loss was only a year ago, I hope that he is finding it in himself to move past the grief and continue with his life and the life of the child he has to remind him of his wife. I don't expect Edgar to forgive me or take me back and I will not try to convince him of that but instead I only ask that you tell him I still think of him daily and that I send my very best wishes to him. He is always in my prayers.

Returning to Linton, because I simply must gush about him. Young as I am, I did not feel that I had it in me to be maternal. I knew it was my responsibility to protect Linton, even before his birth, but I felt that I would not be able to be a Mother to him. The moment he was born, Nelly, everything changed. He is so beautiful and so tiny. I thank god every day that he looks like me and Edgar rather than his father. He has the palest skin and hair even fairer than little Cathy's. He was born early, only at seven months, and he has struggled to regain size since then. He's around six months now but he still looks like a newborn. He's fairly quiet though, although when he does cry, it feels as though he wishes to scream the whole building down. I love him. I love him more than I realised it was possible to love someone in this world. I would die before I allowed anything to happen to him but for now, I know that instead I must live for him. Imagine, young Isabella Linton who always had everything handed to her, now living every moment for another? Even a year ago, I could not have imagined in and yet now I could not imagine it another wau.

I have found myself a job, it's doesn't pay well in monetry terms, but it is enough to keep the roof over my head and keep both Linton and I alive and as well as we can be. I am working as a newspaper delivery person, it is early mornings, earlier than I was used to and it was certainly a shock to me, waking up at 5am to take the morning papers out. There is a lot of walking involved, I had no issue with this. As you know I used to ramble around the grounds of the Grange for hours on end. The atmosphere while walking through London is very different. The air is full of smoke and it took me some time to get used to that without constantly feeling that I was choking. The streets are grimier, and there are buildings all around in every direction. If I were to sum London up, I think I would sya grey. Grey from the sheer amount of factory smoke that fills the air, although perhaps I am a little jaded based on the free space and greenary of the moors. The job I have is with the people who I rent from. They are a kindly couple by the name of Mr and Mrs Morris and they have been my guardian angels and saviours since I have moved here. They take the money for my rent out of my wages instantly, so that I only have to concern myself with food and any other bits Linton and I might need.

A few times I have had to call out a doctor to see Linton. He is prone to asthma but I believe there is more to his health conditions than that. I hope he survives, Nelly, I truly do. I cannot imagine what I would do with myself if Linton were to die before I do. The doctor here was kind but he was also in a rush, he did not pause for conversation or reassurance in the way that Dr Kenneth does. I suppose that is the rush of the city compared to the calm of the country. He does not seem to think that Linton is in any immediate danger but I still worry a lot. Linton comes with me when I am go on my newspaper runs. He remains bundled up with a blanket against my chest. I cannot afford a pram but I feel better having him so close to me. He is provided with my warmth and I am aware of him continuing to breathe.

I hope you do not feel ill towards me because of my decision to leave for the city. I could not have remained in Wuthering Heights any longer, knowing that I was with child. I could bare the treatment of Heathcliff, the curses of Joseph and the drunkenness of Hindley for myself but I could not bare for one moment to think that my child was going to go through that also. I know it seems unchristian to go against the vows of marriage but I cannot believe that God will judge me. Perhaps I am wrong but I must stand by my decision now

I hope you are well, Ellen, and that you will write back to me with word of everything in the moors.

Love  
Isabella.

Dear Isabella,

Your letter came as a surprise, but it was not an unwanted one. I had been hoping to receive some sign that you had reached a safe destination. As the weeks turned into months, I started to believe that I wouldn’t hear from you. I had to convince myself that you made it somewhere safe and wished to disconnect from this life entirely, it was that or give in to the fear that something much worse had happened. I wish to make it clear that I feel nothing ill towards you, of course I believe that marriage is a holy oath but the man you married was not a holy one. Your circumstances were exceptional, and I believe, as you must continue to do, that God could not condemn you for removing yourself and your child from a situation that put you both in danger. God’s love remains with you and your faith in him must remain strong.

I am so happy to hear about your son. I think it is beautiful that you gave him the name Linton. It is hard to imagine hair that is lighter than that of our Cathy’s. Perhaps you could send us a lock to be able to compare them. It would be lovely to receive something like that. You and Linton will be in my prayers. I can only pray that his health improves and that you both prosper to the best of what is available to you.

You asked for some information about things here. Edgar remains stoic. Although he does not express his emotions around me, from what I have picked up simply from being around him for so long, I believe that he is doing better than he was in the early months. His bond with Cathy is much like that which you expressed as having with your Linton. Cathy has her mother and her father in her. She is crawling now and wishes to explore every single nook and cranny. This has led to many chases to stop her attempting to climb staircases, tables and even bookcases. The latter was certainly an amusing escapade. Cathy had moved over to the bookcase while Edgar and I were discussing a shopping list for my next visit to Gimmerton. By the time we looked, she was using the lowest shelf to pull herself up. I believe that had she be left to her own devices, she would have attempted to make her way up the bookcase and ended up underneath a pile of leather bounds. She certainly keeps us on our toes. She is babbling now, saying words like Dada. She has taken to calling me NeNe, not yet able to form the whole of the word Nelly.

Edgar does not leave the grounds often and in her just under a year Cathy has not left the grounds at all. Edgar still attends church every Sunday morning but apart from that and the small bits of work he has to do, he busies his time with Cathy. He is the most attentive father I have seen in all my years. It is beautiful to behold. I worry somewhat about his unwillingness to have Cathy leave the grounds. He will not express his reasoning, though I have no doubt it is in relation to your wretched husband. Perhaps when she is older he will allow her the wilderness to explore in also. I cannot blame him from keeping precautions.

My largest worry currently is that we are fast approaching the anniversary of Catherine’s death, which of course, is Cathy’s first birthday. It is bound to be a day of mixed emotions, the joy of Cathy’s entry into the world will always be tinged with the grief at Catherine’s exit. I only pray that Edgar is able to hold on to the joy related to his daughter over the grief of Catherine’s death.

Outside of the Grange, although I know you will feel little sadness regarding it, I must tell you that Hindley Earnshaw has passed away. Drunk himself to death, I believe. It is something I believe we all saw coming. I know he was a brute, drunken, violent, abusive towards his son, but I found myself feeling some grief when I heard the news. When my mother worked at Wuthering Heights, I spent much time playing with the young Master Earnshaw, and it was for my childhood friend that I grieved not for the monster that later replaced him.

There is very little else to report from here, as you mentioned in your letter, life moves at a different pace here. I hope this letter will find you well and that you will write back as soon as you are able.

Love  
Nelly Dean


End file.
